


eyeless in gaza

by thefudge



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Double Penetration, F/M, Grief Sex, Grief/Mourning, Incest, M/M, Threesome - F/M/M, fucked up kids, no one knows about R plus L equals J
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-30
Updated: 2018-10-30
Packaged: 2019-08-11 00:52:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16465568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefudge/pseuds/thefudge
Summary: She eats their seed, cries rivers of seed. Robb/Sansa/Jon





	eyeless in gaza

**Author's Note:**

> way back when, i said i'd write something for robb/sansa, my OG starkcest ship. but then a few months back i also got hit with the jonsa bug. so here i am, dealing with my dilemma, one threesome at a time. 
> 
> p.s. the title is a reference to milton's "samson agonistes" (relevant for themes of ruination and blindness). it is not a reference to aldous huxley's novel. i fucks with original text only. just kidding, aldous can stay.

_don't you think we'll be better off_  
_without temptation to regress to fake tenderness_

                           daughter - to belong 

 

_of man or worm, the vilest here excel me:_

_they creep, yet see; I, dark in light, exposed_

_to daily fraud, contempt, abuse and wrong,_

_within doors, or without, still as a fool,_

_in power of others, never in my own -_

                       john milton  - samson agonistes 

 

 

 

***

Grief is a kind of blinding - the contour of things remains, but inside them? Nothing. 

For instance, the inside of this car is blindness. They are riding in the back of the hearse and he pulls her into his lap.

Her shoes are caked in mud from the burial mound. He yanks them off her heels so she can straddle him properly.

Their father was put to rest half an hour ago, but he doesn’t think he’ll last until after the funeral feast. He needs her now, while tears still track their cheeks.

He needs her now when the storm of grief hasn’t abated, when he is willing to do something reckless, something blinding.

Sansa rests her fingers on his collar, tugging at his tie. “It’s my fault. I did it. I killed him, Robb. I killed Father.”

He grips her wrist until he feels her veins throbbing. “Stop saying that.”

“But it’s true. If I hadn’t talked to Cersei, none of this would have happened. It goes back to me. I wish you’d be angry. I wish you’d cave my skull in. Why won’t you beat me?”

Her nails tear at his shirt, showing him the violence he should be capable of. Her auburn hair - lock from his lock, shade of his shade – spills all around her like brandy. They both sipped from the same flask as they stood at their father’s grave. She keeps railing at him, beating her fists against his chest, telling him to please _crush_ her fucking skull.

Robb grabs her chin roughly, shakes her.

“You need to live with what you did. We all do.”

So, he _does_ blame her, after all. She smiles triumphantly. “You want to hurt me, but you’re scared.”

“I’m not scared.”

He shoves his hand under her skirt roughly, drags her underwear halfway down. He plunges two fingers inside her before she can even gasp. He hurts her.

“Is this what you want?” he rasps, still holding onto her chin, bringing her mouth close to his.

She nods wordlessly, tears falling liberally down her face, into his palm.

Their faces are so alike, they used to call them twins when they were young.

She starts moving against his hand clumsily as he flicks his fingers inside her, tearing her apart, inch by inch. He makes her feel good, _so_ good, which makes it feels worse. She fucks herself against him, sobbing. Robb buries his head in her hair, trying to hide a scream there.

 _Father is rolling in his grave_ , he thinks mid-scream.

 

 

The rest of the funeral party is already at the house.

It’s Jon who greets them in the courtyard. He opens the car door and tells them they are late. Sansa slips out like a Nereid of the rivers, a fish without gulls, gasping as she pulls down the hem of her black dress.

Robb stays in the car awhile, fixes his tie, runs a hand over his face.

Jon stares at them in quiet disapproval. His grey eyes, their Father’s eyes, see everything. He knows what happened in the car. He always knows.

He places a hand on Robb’s arm.

“You couldn’t wait until after the feast?”

His brother scours him with an unrepentant glare. “Would _you_ have waited?”

That silences him.

 

 

Sansa accepts every relative’s clinging embrace. She murmurs empty words of thanks. "Thank you for being here. He would have wanted you here. May he find peace."

But the truth is, her father would have hated this officious ceremony. Their father will never find peace. It's not the Stark way. 

Still, she presides over the funeral table, because her mother is too devastated to even move from her chair.

Jon carries little Arya in his arms, trying to get her to sit down.

She screams for Ned. She doesn’t think it’s possible for him to have left her.

Robb shuts his eyes and presses a hand against Sansa’s knee under the table. He just needs one small comfort, that’s all.

“Don’t press so hard. It hurts,” she whispers to him from the corner of her mouth.

He forgot that he left fresh bruises on her thigh.

Arya has crawled under the table in a desperate attempt to hide from the world.

Jon kneels down to pick her up.

He stares at Robb’s hand under his sister’s dress - the innocence of it, the unblemished moment of communion.

It is nothing like lust. It is the wolfish need of the pack to be together. He longs to join them.

 

 

After the guests have left, after their mother has cried herself to sleep, after the candles have been snuffed, Jon knocks on Robb’s bedroom door.

He is summoned inside.

He lets himself in and locks the door.  

He takes his usual chair by the window where the winter light slants lovingly over their bodies.

Sansa’s cheeks are almost cracked with dry tears. Robb runs his thumb against her jaw and it feels like chalk. He drags his thumb between her breasts, over her soft belly, moistens it between her folds as he spreads her legs.

Jon tilts his head. He loves and hates this moment – the moment where her legs wrap around her brother’s waist while she pretends not to accept his intrusion.

Sansa arches away from him, but Robb pins her down, covers her breast with his mouth, teeth leaving dread marks until her skin breaks. Secretly, he loves the idea of making a meal out of her. 

"Robb - it hurts - more - _more_ -"

Jon doesn’t stir in his seat. He watches them with his all-seeing eyes. The grey of his irises leeches the room, drains it of color, until the only spark left is the red hair, hers and his, indistinguishable.

Jon envies their vibrant kinship. He presses his fingers to his lips, tasting his own salt, as Robb kisses the vermilion between Sansa’s legs.

She moans in grief, moans in pleasure, rolls her head against the pillow, and her glassy eyes open as if without her accord.

She stares across the room at Jon, becomes a burning stone in his grey eyes. She aches for him to join them, but it will not happen yet. Not until a certain barrier has been lifted.

Jon leans forward, elbows on his knees, trying to drink his fill. He is hard for them, but he will wait.

There comes a moment when he rises from the chair, but it’s only towards the end, when instead of moans, Sansa only gives them screams.

 

 

They hold her between them, they border her on both sides until she’s an island.

Their father’s murderess. If only she had kept her mouth shut.

They hate her, their little bed-warmer, the family beauty, the family's ruin. 

Robb grabs the side of her jaw and pins her head against his shoulder as he fucks her from behind. He slams into her, making her body sway forward on a pendulum, towards her other brother. 

Jon is more forgiving.

Or less, perhaps. He forces her to look at him while he enters her cunt.

 _Please_ , she whispers to them both as they fill her up and shred her to pieces. _Please, kill me. Crush my fucking skull._

The brothers have their hands around her neck, keeping her tethered to this world, but only just. They won’t make it easy for her.

She will have to live, after all.

They fuck her body out of its confines. 

The contour of things remains, but inside them? Nothing. 

She kneels penitently and they growl like wolves as they spill their cum in her mouth, both at the same time. She eats their seed, cries rivers of seed.

Her sobs sound like howls. 

 

 

Later, as they sleep in each other’s unkind arms, Sansa whispers words of revenge.

“They’ll pay,” she murmurs against their ears. “They’ll pay for what they did. Won’t they?”

Jon kisses her mouth to silence her. Robb kisses Jon and grips his cock in his hand. Sansa kisses Robb's hand where he grips Jon. 

The promise of vengeance spills from one tongue to another. They can taste the crumbling loam, the soil their father was planted in.

Towards dawn they start again, unleashing new sounds, forging new sins.

They make Ned Stark roll in his grave.


End file.
